a rational deception
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: uraraka and bakugou make a dumb bet for stupid idiots. featuring: the most trivial stakes of all time!
1. gratuitous fucking ache

welcome to the porn a twitter village raised! (don't worry, you'll see.)  
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bit of a barrier to entry: a *lot* of this chapter will probably go over your head if you haven't read at least the main story in this series, 'a feat equal,' and its direct sequel, 'appendix c: galling hypocrite bastard,' first.

enjoy~!

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Katsuki sees Uraraka plenty after his release from government custody: he's there when she undergoes neurological and genetic regenesis via freaking _massage therapy_ (seriously, what infinitely improbable set of circumstances leads one to figure out a quirk _that_ fucking specific?); and following the couple of days it takes for her to gradually regain the feeling and motility in her arms and legs, he attends a handful of her physical therapy sessions to ward off curious onlookers and glare murder at her trainer for the slightest perceived fuck-ups; and once she's discharged from the hospital, he and Eijirou twice make the trek across town to Frogger and Uraraka's too-small apartment to drop off overdue paperwork and accompany her to her complex's shitty, underequipped excuse of a 'gym' for some low-intensity conditioning and light cardio.

In fact, he's seen Uraraka at least once a day, everyday since he obtained the necessary permissions –fucking _red tape bullshit_—to visit her.

But after that first night, Katsuki hasn't had a fucking _second_ alone with her, and it's starting to fray at his goddamn nerves.

At the hospital, her folks are a ubiquitous presence, and doctors and nurses are in-and-out running tests and consulting with her about her PT regimen all the live-long fucking day, and at any given time, at least one (usually more) among a rotating gallery of their clingy fucking idiots are also on-hand, aggressively wasting space in his general direction.

Then, with Frogger out of town, on loan to an agency somewhere down south, Uraraka's parents follow her back to her place to help her out around the house, wanting her to take it as easy as possible in the final stages of her recovery. So they're there, hovering (and in her old man's case, openly _staring him down_), both times Katsuki comes calling (which is, incidentally, why he invites Eijirou along in the first place: to be his attention-deflecting parent buffer).

It's not like he doesn't fucking _get it_. She and her family have just gone through a harrowing ordeal together –who the hell is he to begrudge her folks wanting to spend more time with her?

Besides, she probably needs the extra looking-after, and fuck knows _he_ can't volunteer for the gig: he's got his own mountain of paperwork to scale, and he's picking up as many patrol shifts in Uraraka's neighborhood as he can, since targeted revenge strikes are statistically _much_ more fucking likely following major incidents…particularly, he knows, gritting his teeth against the reminder of his deepest shame, when the heroes embroiled in those incidents rack up a body count.

Hell, between work and avoiding the press and cooperating with the mob of government entities clamoring to pass the costs for the Registry's loss off onto one another and attending Shrink Wrap's niece's turtle's birthday party (per the conditions for an unspecified 'discounted rate' Deku negotiates in his absence), he can barely spare the time it takes to visit her the twice that he does.

But, _shit_. Katsuki's got _three years –_probably more, if he's honest—to make up for, and he's impatient to _get started already_, except they haven't had a moment to themselves in _eleven days_, so he _can't_. Even as unexpectedly in favor of PDA as it turns out he is, and as generally accepting of him as Uraraka's parents seem to be (her dad's laser-focused, razor-tipped scrutiny notwithstanding), this shit is too new and undefined for him to be overly familiar with her in their –or anyone else's—presence.

Meaning their interactions, for the past _eleven goddamn days_, have been strictly professional. Strictly platonic. Strictly _hands-off_.

Consequently, he's at fucking _peak agitation_ when Uraraka walks into the office –arm-in-arm with _motherfucking Four Eyes_, talking animatedly and looking cutesy fucking chic in a sheer-sleeved, wine-red blouse, black tights under black shorts, and ruby flats. Her hair's pulled up into a stylishly mussed bun, forelocks swinging free to frame her face, accentuating its roundness; and there's an unmistakable, glossy shimmer to her lips as she smiles that draws his gaze and fucking _ruins_ him, because she looks a fucking vision and she's there, _right the fuck in front of him_, finally sans parents, and he _still can't fucking touch her_.

They're at work, surrounded by prying, interfering idiots, and they haven't had time to figure out what the hell they're even doing, much less negotiate his new privileges, so it doesn't fucking _matter _how much he wants to march across the room, shove that betrothed-to-a-demon _fuck_into a wall, and drag Uraraka into the nearest breakroom –or restroom, or utility closet, whatever the shit's closest—for an overdue and urgent 'conversation' (that can take whatever the hell form it damn well needs to). Bottom line is, _none of that's a fucking option._

Goading ol' Backfire over there into a sparring match, however, is _well_ within his rights –which is as good a justification as any other as far as he's concerned, given that he's already stomping toward the unsuspecting pair, in flagrant breach of his own injunction against _that action specifically_.

Just as Katsuki's within spitting distance, though, Uraraka detaches from Four Eyes with a little bunny hop and a double fist pump, fire in her eyes.

"Fated battles are never easy," she begins, with an almost comical intensity, while Katsuki rolls his eyes at Uraraka elevating yet another social encounter to the 'fated battle' tier, "but you're strong, Ten-kun; you're a _survivor_." Four Eyes mimics her fisted fighting pose and nods once, stiffly. "You can _do this_!" He nods again, more vigorously now.

"Y-you are correct, Ochako-kun!" Four Eyes' delivery is as stilted and severe as ever, but there's a sliver of hesitation in it, a high note of quivery panic, suggesting he's suffering some degree of mental distress. And that's fucking delightful –enough to stay Katsuki's advance, at least for the moment. "This is a happy occasion, and undoubtedly M-Me-_Hatsume_-kun's family will be lovely! All will be well!" Uraraka shakes her head affirmatively, and claps a pinky-popped hand on Four Eyes' massive forearm in solidarity.

"Hold on to that optimism, Ten-kun! And remember, we're behind you every step o' the way!" With a resigned, if faraway, look in his eyes, as though he's going off to die at war, Four Eyes executes an abrupt about-face and robots back the way he came, exiting the agency not two minutes after he entered.

It's a weird scene, but one that manages somehow to satisfy Katsuki's spontaneously-manifested, _Megane*_-directed schadenfreude, and to reinforce how well and truly fucking sunk he is, that his main takeaway from this performance is the insight that Uraraka's too fucking cute to exist.

The _instant_ Four Eyes turns away to confront whatever miserable destiny awaits him, Uraraka also pivots –directly to face Katsuki, like she already knows he's there (probably she fucking does, as he'd made no effort to menace his way across the office _quietly_)—and beelines for him, pointedly smiling and extending greetings to everyone in the room _but_ him as she approaches.

Katsuki stands rooted to the spot, feeling caught out, cornered, and fucking _electrified_ at the prospect that he might be in trouble.

Uraraka's exchanging meaningless pleasantries with Hanta when she reaches him, so she neither looks at nor speaks to him as she hooks an arm around the crook of his elbow and leads off, gently steering him toward the hallway. In the interest of expediting their escape, Katsuki lets Uraraka smooth operator him the hell outta there, keeping his mouth judiciously fucking _shut_ while the peanut gallery of shitbrain extras congratulate her and welcome her back.

As they cross the threshold into the hall, Uraraka waves, promising to hang out and catch up with everyone soon, and then finally, _finally_, it's just the two of them, alone together in an empty corridor.

At a sudden, inexplicable loss, Katsuki begins to sweat. He's had several days to obsess over what he might do to her –hell, what they might do to _each other_—when they get a minute to themselves, yet now that the moment's actually here, his mind is blank-slate, one-with-the-damn-universe fucking _empty_.

He sneaks a downward glance, and meets a wide, warm smile doing an absolute shit job of hiding the murder in her eyes.

"We're being _nice_ to Ten-kun today," Uraraka chastises, "and the next couple days after." There's no mistaking this as anything other than the unconditional directive it is, which gets his blood pumping in anticipation of the swift retaliation she'll deliver when he pops off with whatever shithead contrarian remark occurs to him first.

Except…nothing ever pops off. Instead he watches her, and listens intently as she explains that Four Eyes' parents are meeting Target Eyes' for the first time over brunch to formally discuss the unholy engagement, and that 'poor _Ten-kun_' is a nervous wreck about it. If Katsuki knows what's good for him, she continues, all spun-sugar sweetness, he'll forget whatever beef he's got with '_**Ten**__-kun_' and leave well enough alone.

Even setting aside his growing aversion to Uraraka being on first-name basis with seemingly fucking everyone in her social circle save him, Katsuki is having a _bad time_: the endearing brightness of her smile makes his fucking chest hurt, and the darling dangerousness of her tone as she threatens to 'send him to space' if he steps out of line wrenches hot like a knife to the gut.

Which is _bullshit_. None of this shit is _new_ to him; she wears smiles like he wears a furrowed brow (i.e. reflexively), and this definitely isn't the first time he's been on the receiving end of her chipper-sunshine intimidations, either.

So why the gratuitous fucking _ache_?

"Bakugou," she quietly beckons, snapping him back to the present as she drops his arm, slows to a stop near the entrance of the girls' locker room, and reaches up to run her thumb along the shell of his left ear. He flinches (he can't believe he fucking _flinches_), not expecting the contact, and Uraraka rectracts her hand as if burned. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you…" She trails off, but her gaze keeps compulsively flicking left, and it doesn't take a freaking mind-reading quirk to divine that she wants to ask after his hearing. Whether or not she _will_ remains to be seen, as she's got a full-blown complex about the partial loss being 'her fault' (nevermind how moronic _that _fucking is), and can't seem to bring herself to do the actual asking.

Which is damn unfortunate for her, 'cause he sure as shit isn't going to _volunteer_ the information. She wants to know, she's going to have to get the hell over it and use her fucking words_. _Katsuki's already tried explaining it was his own explosion and lack of foresight that caused the damage, and that it's fucking objectively _not_ her fault, but she refuses to let herself be convinced.

Uninterested in enabling that needless guilty conscience crap, he's resolved not to share the good news –that his hearing has been steadily improving—until the day she inevitably loses her patience, looks him in the damn eye, and _demands_ the information.

That day is not today.

Today, the question she asks is: "Have you not been sleeping?" She gestures toward her own face to indicate the bags under his eyes, and Katsuki doesn't answer because he's not going to lie to her, but he's also definitely not going to tell her the truth, which is that no, he he hasn't been sleeping, not for weeks.

Just like the last time she was seriously injured.

Except it's _worse_ this time. On top of the constant, low-grade terror of not knowing if he'd be able to find the right combination of quirk fixes for Uraraka, and of having no guarantee those hypothetical fixes would work as advertised, he'd endured that fucking endless hell of an interrogation, during which he was tactically denied sleep for prolonged, exhausting intervals. And even in the narrow windows he'd been permitted to rest, every time he started to drift off, he'd see Mizu's defiant face–_stupid fucking kid_—in the instant before he stuffed an explosion directly into it. Or he'd see the Maven, eyes glowing with sinister light as she prepared to blow them all to hell. Or, he'd see Fissure's broken, blackened body, and relive the Freak's final, gasping breaths. In fucking surround sound. On _loop_.

After his release, the nightmares followed him home, and continued to deny him the peace of mind necessary to do much more than fitfully doze. So really, it ain't a matter of 'has' or 'hasn't' been: Katsuki _can't_ sleep.

"Me, either," Uraraka confesses, ostensibly responding to the errant strand of thought in his brain. While he's gauging how bothered he should be with evidence mounting to support the notion that she's somehow a fucking psychic now, Uraraka shuffles forward half a step and wraps him in a hug.

Katsuki stops breathing.

As her arms wind tighter, the madness-steeped, sleepless tension begins to melt away, like she's physically squeezing it out of him. Eleven days of feeling strung out, on edge, like he's _unraveling_ –unceremoniously fucking _over_.

Who knew the fix would be this easy? Or just how truly fucking starved he's been for her, that _this_ is all it takes to restore his wrecked-to-shit equilibrium?

With hands that shake more from impatience than indecision, he cups her jaw on either side of her face and tilts her head back so she's looking directly up the swell of his chest into his eyes. Her lips part slightly in surprise, then soften into a small, tired smile.

She's fucking perfect.

Absently, Katsuki pinches a lock of her hair between his fingers and tucks it delicately behind her ear, content in the moment to simply drink her in.

…until, that is, Uraraka tips up on her toes, presses a chaste kiss to his mouth, and then bounces back onto her heels, grinning like an idiot. After that, the sequence of events gets a little…jumbled.

All he knows for sure is, one minute he is fucking _spiritually_ _shattering_; and the next he's kissing her, hard and hungry, while she gently drags her fingernails across the tightening planes of his stomach, and shit but he wishes his damn shirt weren't in the way and that she'd _do it _**_harder_**—

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*Megane - everyone here probably already knows, but just in case: 'megane' literally means 'eyeglasses' in japanese, but is also colloquially applied to a somewhat vague glasses-wearing character archetype that ranges from sinister to sexy and everywhere in between. the primary feature of the 'megane' is, unsurprisingly, dem fraaaaaaames~

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other notes:

-WHO HERE MISSED BAKUGOU POV? GOOD, ME TOO  
-this first chapter is meant to do some emotional work/tension build; next chapter will feature hot make-outs and sexy wagers; and then at long last, we should arrive at the Lewding. i solemnly swear that i am packing up and moving to mars if this shit tries to stretch itself out past three chapters.  
-this dipped a bit more into bakugou's PTSD than i intended, but i'm actually glad it did. three people are *dead,* to some greater or lesser degree *because* of bakugou and uraraka, and i like to think that's not something either of them would just *get over.* gotta get up in the guts of them there emotional/psychological _consequences_.  
-see ya' next time, ya sweet fuckin' peaches~


	2. quite the conundrum

WARNING: OPEN AND CONSCIOUS ABUSE OF THE SEMI-COLON. I'M DEFINITELY NOT KIDDING.

PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

enjoy~!

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Ochako feels powerful, to so completely command Bakugou's desire that his hands conspicuously _shake_ as he reaches out to tip her head back; and that the innocuous, tender-meant kiss she lays on him triggers a chain reaction that begins with his fingers convulsively tightening around her face and ends with the both of 'em careening around the wall of the entrance corridor and crashing into the locker room door, tangled together and fully making out.

Bakugou kisses her deeply, with dizzying intensity and raw, unvarnished _need_. One of his hands splays at the small of her back, curving her body closer, while the other possessively wraps the nape of her neck, bracing her as he eases a knee between her thighs and –here's a familiar setup—pins her against the door.

Eager to test the limits of her new-found power, Ochako lifts her hips with sensual slowness, riding the friction upward along the slope of Bakugou's thigh (this time on her own terms, and _on purpose_); feeling his muscles tense under the experimental rake of her nails; relishing the gasping thickness of his voice as he breathes her name between kisses. Shuddering with pleasure, Ochako ups the ante, tucking her thumbs and sliding the tips of her fingers up beneath the hem of his shirt, then curlin' 'em down over the waistband of his fitted slacks and tuggin' him decisively toward her.

When they collide, Bakugou makes a hard noise in the back of his throat and breaks away, ducking his head to bury it in the crook of her neck.

"_Shit_," he hisses, sounding frayed. His hair tickles her cheek as he touches his lips to the curve of her shoulder, the line of her throat, the sensitive shell of her ear.

"Bakugou," she sighs, high n' quiet, while his hands converge at her hips, bunchin' fabric as his fingers dig into the flesh it conceals. There's a beat that follows her naming him, a marked pause, the barest flicker of…_disruption_ charging the atmosphere, but it's gone the instant he twists back to reclaim her lips in a kiss she feels to her _toes_, forgotten in favor of the deliciously insistent _press_ of his body, and the unrestrained –if reverent—way he handles her, and the broad, firm _heat_ of him.

In fact, in the moment, the only thought Ochako can hold onto is **_more_**. _More and faster and **now**_.

Well –that, and fleetingly, in a brief flash of lucidity, the imperative that they move this somewhere more private. This's _extremely unprofessional_, after all, and they'll never live it down if someone catches them out in the open like this, _especially_ since Bakugou's always been such a stickler about not 'fraternizing' during business hours.

Secretly delighted at his hypocrisy (and proud to be the cause of it), Ochako nevertheless gropes blind for the doorknob at her back, taking a couple of failed, fumbling whacks before she finds the handle and clumsily bats it down. Knowin' she's about to lose the anchor behind her, she adjusts her stance, pressing back against Bakugou to stand under her own weight so she doesn't tumble onto her rear through the opening door. As usual, he reads the subtle cue perfectly, loosening his grip and withdrawing just enough to not be actively crowdin' her anymore, and Ochako steps back, towing him forward where her fingers're still hooked over the waist of his pants.

Bakugou cedes the lead to her without protest, followin' where he's bid. He lets her walk him into the room, fluidly mirroring her movements as she slides 'em to a stop just beyond the outer edge of the door's soft-hinged, slow-swingin' arc. And then, before the door's even closed, with the lightest stamp of her knuckles against hidden skin, he lets her steer him back 'til it's _his _shoulders hittin' metal for a change.

The hungry focus of his gaze hits her low and heavy, has her stretchin' her arms up, takin' his face between her hands, and pulling him frantically _down_ to pick up where they left off.

"Someone's eager," Bakugou gloats, the sharp curve of a smirk broadening against her mouth.

Feeling a twitch of moue even through the giddy thrill of his hands kneading her bottom with undisguised enthusiasm, "I agree." Ochako's own hands're far less settled, and roam with greedy abandon: pushing up into the roots of his hair to run her fingers through the notoriously untameable fluff; sliding across the back of his neck before splitting off to sweep the solid expanse of his pecs –and _god_, it feels _so good _to actually be able to participate this time, to _touch him_ again, to her heart's content. "You _do_ seem motivated."

As if to prove her point, Bakugou suddenly peels away from the door, folds his hands under her butt, and scoops her up. Then, after she wraps her legs obligingly around his waist, he arcs 'em both left and places her on top o' the wooden cubby unit meant for civilian shoe storage, next to a little potted succulent the girls take turns caring for and decorating, and drops his mouth to the fluttering pulse in her neck.

But what he says is: "You started it, Sweetness."

Incredulous, and wondering if she's really about to let herself get sucked into playing the Who Started It game, "_You_ kissed _me_."

"Retaliation," he argues, definitely hoarse, as his teeth close agony-soft over her skin.

Breathlessly, "Overreaction, more like." Her stomach's alive with butterflies as she slips her palms beneath his shirt and finally, _finally _gets her hands on the warm, quiverin' flesh of his abs.

"Say the word and I'll stop," he bandies, smug, layin' the responsibility right back at her feet.

In a careless flash of pique, "Face it: you couldn't keep your hands off me if ya' tried."

Bakugou freezes, and instantly, Ochako knows she's made a mistake.

"That a challenge?" he asks her, and she can feel the wicked smile forming against the skin of her shoulder, where he's quietly, blessedly resumed nudging aside the collar of her blouse and the strap of her bra to bare more of her to the intoxicating heat of his mouth.

It's not. It's truly, sincerely _not_ a challenge. She's wanted this for so, _so long_, and now that she's finally got it, the _last_ thing she wants is to contribute in any way whatsoever to it _stopping_.

So she's surprised and confused to hear herself responding: "What if it is?"

She's even _more_ surprised when Bakugou brusquely grips her thighs and drags her flush with the edge of the shelf and the hard line of his body –where she can _feel him_ against her stomach. Ochako bites her lip to hold in the whimper threatenin' to spill out of her, fisting her hands in the vee of his shirt and squeezin' her legs tighter to increase the friction between 'em.

"Out –_shit—_out with the terms, then."

Lost in sensation, she manages a befuddled, "…terms?"

"Of the wager, Uraraka," he snaps, and goodness but it's nice when he says her name. 'Specially when he says it directly into her ear, in a tone of voice suggestin' he's in some small amount of actual, physical _pain_. "Keep the fuck up."

Tethered to reality only tenuously by the suspense of Bakugou's hands, tearing fast for second base –then skirtin' shy at the last second, Ochako floats the first idea that feathers into her brain, "H-how about if I win, you…come over n' cook for me?"

Immediately disdainful, "No deal." Before she can complain, he kisses her cheek and continues, "Wednesday we're both off by six –dinner's already on the damn agenda."

"Oh." Ochako flushes, genuinely touched and gradually coming back to her senses. It seems silly, after all this…activity, to be so affected by as small a thing as Bakugou's ridiculous, sideways promise to make her dinner, yet here she is, on the verge of happy tears to know he's already looking ahead, and cookin' up what seems an awful lot like _boyfriend plans_.

Bakugou's expression sours in the face of her naked glee.

"You always stock up on garbage when Frogger's outta town, anyway," he grumbles. Reminded who she's dealing with by the left-field criticism, Ochako darts in for a kiss, and teases back when he moves to intercept her. "What else you got, Cheeks?"

"Deku-kun." For the second time this morning, Bakugou stiffens, hands stilling under her shoulderblades. Smilin' bright at the simmering horror in his gaze, she delivers the _coup de grace_: "I win, you've gotta pay him a compliment." His brow wrinkles with livid disapproval. "A spontaneous-seemin', heartfelt compliment –nothing backhanded, and no disclaimers about it bein' the consequence of a bet. Deal?"

One might think he'd been asked to swallow poison, from the face he's pulling. There's serious turmoil in it, reflecting likewise grave internal conflict. On principle alone, Ochako's sure he's itching to veto this proposition, as well…but she's prepared to die on this hill, and she suspects he knows as much. The only way he's getting out of this one is by backing down and yielding whatever point it is they're vyin' to make, and obviously that's not happening, _also_ on principle. She imagines this must be quite the conundrum for him, and privately basks in the glow of his agitation.

At length, through gritted teeth: "_Fine_," he agrees. She sweetly kisses the tip of his nose, a reward for his cooperation.

The making out lapses somewhat as they enter into official negotiations, though they remain curled around one another in a loose yet definitely compromising tangle.

"And if you win…?" Bakugou reddens 'round the ears, and he glances away with a testy '_tch_,' glaring at nothing. She finds his visible discomfort unexpectedly endearing.

"_When_ I win, I'll let'cha know."

Refusin' him flat, "No deal. It's not fair unless I know what's at stake." He meets her gaze square.

"That's my condition, Round Face. Take it or forfeit." Ochako huffs, suddenly frustrated, unsure how either of them let things spin so far outta control. They've _just _gotten each other back, and their time physically apart was a _daily_ _agony_, and this feels _so **good**_ –so _what the hell are theydoing here_? One of 'em has to be the bigger person and swallow their pride and put an _end _to this insanity.

Instead, apparently unable to help herself, "…touching only for sparring and field maneuvers?"

/-/

"Fine," Katsuki bites out, hating everything that's happening and having no fucking concept of how to _stop it_.

Begrudingly, they begin to separate, Uraraka awkwardly unwinding herself from around him as his hands skate the length of her spine and flatten against the wood of the cubby on either side of her thighs.

"Incidental touches okay?" He narrows his eyes, trusting neither this arbitrary and infinitely exploitable loophole of an exception, nor the way she scoots off the lip of the shelf and _deliberately_ slides her body against his as she goes.

Stars briefly popping in his periphery, Katsuki swallows hard and forces himself to step back, away from her. In the moment, it feels like the hardest thing he's fucking ever done.

Clearing his throat, "Case-by-case basis."

"And obviously, no kissing…" Uraraka's pouting. She's _openly fucking pouting_, _fucking **clearly** upset _–why the fuck won't she spare them both this misery and fucking _give_ already?

"_Obviously_," he echoes, in a harsh, clipped tone.

"Shame, though…" she breathes, casually invading his personal space to only _just_ not touch him, "…since we were just getting started…" The way she looks up at him from beneath her lashes, all coy enticement; paired with the warm, tantalizing nearness of her, comes _perilously fucking close_to undoing his resolve and crumbling his entire fucking reality.

But significantly, she's not closing the distance, nor even leaning in to pretend the intent. Probably, he figures, because that would muddy the outcome, and make the win less-than-unequivocal.

Meaning: the game's already started.

Ignoring every impulse to grab her and take what's being so generously fucking offered, Katsuki inclines his head and bows toward her with measured, languorous purpose, watching her eyes flutter closed, feeling the anticipatory quickening of her breath against his mouth and the answering heat coiling tight and painful in his gut.

Then, as she puckers her kiss-swollen lips to receive him: "_Nice try_, _Sweetness_."

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They don't even last half a day.

* * *

*'this time on her own terms, and on purpose' – referencing chapter nine of 'a feat equal,' in which uraraka inadvertently gets off on bakugou's thigh. SEE ALSO: worst pun of all time. (way to see this callback coming, confettiflamingo. ^_~)

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other notes:

-these two are idiots. i love them.  
-any guesses as to what bakugou wants if he wins? hints in chapters one and two. ^_^  
-i don't headcanon bakuho as a prude, regardless of who he's shipped with. in a lot of ways, he's the most _c'est la vie_motherfucker in horikoshi's whole world. and after so many years of knowing/being friends with mina, i'd say odds are low he *hasn't* walked in on her at several locales, in various stages of _flagrante_ with who even knows how many lucky suckers. for her, i imagine he simply shuts the door or turns away and leaves without comment, 'cause it's annoying and probably sometimes psychologically scarring (XD), but at the end of the day, it's just not a big enough deal to kick up a fuss over.

but then, _one time_ he catches deku and todoroki smoochin' in the breakroom, and he flips absolutely all of his shit and starts coming down hard on workplace fraternization. why such a strong reaction?

who knows? that's for you to decide. ;)


	3. a dangerous proposition

GUESS WHO'S MOVING TO MARS

FOUR CHAPTERS NOW I GUESS

**EVERYTHING IS FINE**

*_screams_*

* * *

What Katsuki feels when Uraraka pivots away from him and begins unbuttoning her blouse, brazen cool as she slinks back into the yawning, empty depths of the locker room, all the while holding his gaze with equal parts sulking reproach and wicked calculation: cheated. _Robbed_.

Also, incredulous. Gobsmacked. Devastated. Fucking _beside himself_.

How the hell had this happened? What in fuck did they just _do_?

Fists curled in white-knuckled fury, Katsuki violently tears out of his outer layer dress shirt and drapes the fabric over his arm to curtain off his shame, then hauls ass for the guys' locker room. It's directly across from the girls', and he's moving with fucking _purpose_, so it's a short trek, but it's also _harrowing_.

When he rolls up, he whips the door open, and derives some satisfaction from the plaster-fracturing impact of the metal handle against the interior wall, announcing to any idiots within that they approach him at their own fucking peril.

Eijirou –between a startle-stiff Denki and the Octopus at the far end of the first row of lockers—is naturally unaffected, and continues shimmying into the pants of his costume, smiling and greeting Katsuki.

"Hey, bro, I pulled patrol with Uraraka this morning! She's due in any minute! She may even be here already –you seen her yet?" With a scream of wordless rage, Katsuki stomps off toward the bathroom, throwing a vitriolic '_Fuck off_!' over his shoulder at Eijirou when he hears a cheerful, "I'll tell her you said 'hi!'" trailing along behind him.

He beelines for the closest stall, where he slams shut and latches the door, throws down the lid of the toilet, and parks his ass on the seat to breathe his way the fuck through this predicament. Finely vibrating where his hands are braced against his knees, Katsuki contemplates the fuckmothering void, because he can't fucking _touch_ himself: there are three dinguses definitely within earshot (including precisely one _reconnaissance_ specialist), and the hand cream he uses to render his sweat inert (which he'd commissioned Target Eyes' lab to develop years ago, and which said Demon had proudly _hurled at his fucking head_ three weeks after the fact with a thumbs up and the unabashed assurance that the cream 'doubles as a first-rate personal lubricant') is at his apartment, because what possible fucking reason could he have for bringing that shit to _work_, where his quirk is _the _precondition to doing his damn job?

A cold shower isn't an option, either, as the showers are open concept and the locker room currently contains two of the most intrusive –into _his business seemingly fucking exclusively_—motherfuckers on the planet.

This is a goddamn nightmare.

Luckily though, with the same hyperfocus he applies to everything else, Katsuki manages to calm himself in relatively short order.

As his breathing evens out and the overpowering heat gradually cools, Katsuki falls back against the wall, eyes closing. Little by little, the adrenaline ebbs, too, 'til he's slumped boneless where he sits, suddenly, acutely aware of how _tired_ he is. It takes everything he's got just to open his eyes and sit up straight, and even then it feels like he's moving through a syrupy haze.

He shakes the heaviness off, but decides it's worth it to hit the naproom and try to steal a couple hours' rest while he thinks he might finally be able to fall asleep.

Katsuki trudges back the same way he came raging in, without real regard for the trio putting the finishing touches on their looks. Until, that is, he sees Denki fearlessly striding toward him. Too spent to endure an interaction with this happy-go-lucky idiot, Katsuki musters a perfunctory sneer and a muted, unadorned '_No_,' but the terse forbiddance goes right the hell over Denki's head. Eijirou catches it, however, and snags Denki by the collar of his jacket with a tug and a solemn shake of his head.

Making a mental note to reward Eijirou later for his loyal service, Katsuki clears the locker room without obstacle and blearily winds his way to the nearest naproom. The first door he opens reveals a closet-small space with a single spartan bunkbed, a cheap wooden desk and chair, and a loudly snoring Honenuki half hanging off the top bunk.

Undeterred, Katsuki ducks the outflung limbs and collapses onto the lower bunk. There, soothed by the sense memory of Uraraka in his arms, warm and vital and _alive_, he drifts promptly into a deep, dreamless slumber.

/-/

It's the easiest and most restful sleep he's gotten since the Registry, but he still emerges from it abruptly, in the grips of a mortal panic he can't explain.

Clutching helplessly at his chest, Katsuki slides his phone out of his pocket to check the time and blinks in disbelief at the numbers displayed on the screen. It's just past midday, which means he's been asleep for _five hours_. That's the longest he's been out at a clip in several days, and it's lowkey fucking astonishing.

Centering himself on the accomplishment rather than fixating on the shadowed hands of a grasping, nameless dread, Katsuki swivels his legs over the side of the bed, breath harsh but slowing, and climbs to his feet. He doesn't have to dodge any wayward appendages on the way up, so he isn't surprised to find the top bunk vacated. All the better: he'd just as well _not_ have an audience right now, unconscious or otherwise.

…although it might be not be so bad having Cheeks on hand.

Five minutes with her won him five _hours_ of peace. He can only imagine if she were here, in the flesh, curled up beside him, he might have slept through the day and well into the night, too.

Alternatively, if they hadn't made that _stupid fucking bet_ like a couple of self-sabotaging dipshits, he could maybe have shown up on her doorstep after his own patrol later today, bribed his way in with take-out, and sacked out with her on the couch –possibly even her _bed_, and then they _both_could've gotten some much-needed sleep. Together. Ideally following further…mutual exploration.

Katsuki drags his hand over his face, exasperated with his inability to drive Uraraka from his thoughts for longer than a fucking handful of seconds at a time. Is this just the way things _are_ now? Is he going to be playing six-degrees-of-Uraraka-Ochako for the rest of his natural fucking life? Because this shit is _not sustainable_.

Katsuki breathes deep, forcing his mind clear of unwanted preoccupations as he wipes away the cold sweat beading at his brow. Then, he crams the phone back into his pocket and moves to exit the room, ready to be somewhere more conducive to _keeping_ his mind clear.

Which is precisely when his phone rings.

He almost ignores it and continues on his way, but something compels him to pull it out again, and as he does he rolls his eyes at the pair of Sakura pink mochi that flash up at him –the shit-blurry photo Uraraka insisted he use for her contact picture.

Fucking _of course_ it's her.

Katsuki immediately swipes his thumb across the screen to take the call.

"_Bakugou_!" Uraraka chirrups, eliciting an involuntary twitch of his eye. "_Just finished patrol and lunch with Kirishima-kun, and wondered what you're up to_?" Unprepared for the rush of riotous joy hearing from her unleashes, he bristles, goes on the defensive.

"What's it to you?" Perhaps caught off-guard by the sleep-roughened quality of his voice, Uraraka hesitates.

"_Did I wake you_?" She sounds guilty.

"No," he tells her honestly, if irritably, flicking the light on more to redirect his sudden restlessness than out of an actual need for illumination. "Still at the agency, on my way back to the bullpen. Whadd'ya need?"

There's a hiccup's worth of a pause before, "_You wanna meet me at the training hall in a half hour for a quick spar? If you're not too busy?_"

Katsuki considers his options.

He could turn her down. He's been asleep the past several hours he should have been using to continue catching up on paperwork, and he's got a patrol shift himself in just under four hours. He isn't busy at this exact moment, but there's sure as shit plenty he could and _should_ be doing.

What's more, this is obviously a fucking trap. This girl's been in his life in one capacity or another for going on a full decade now, and he knows she isn't above fighting dirty to get what she wants.

There's no way this is the harmless invitation it seems. No way she's angling for _just_ a 'quick spar.' Absolutely _no fucking way_ she doesn't intend to pull out all the stops to try to break him.

In every way, it's a dangerous proposition, fraught with the potential to go very fucking poorly for him. It was all he could do to tear himself away from her earlier, when he was still technically allowed to touch her; now, any touches beyond those 'incidental' to 'sparring and field maneuvers' are off the table (a stipulation which Uraraka will undoubtedly exploit to the fucking fullest), and he's on edge just _thinking_ about having to hold himself back while she's wearing one among a rotating selection of outfits including a small tee or old, holey tank top, and too-tight tights or egregiously short shorts.

While she's panting, shiny with sweat, her brow wrinkled with thoughtful determination and deadly focus. While she looks a flush fucking goddess, incandescent in her ferocity; glorious in her single-minded pursuit of victory.

If Katsuki says yes, he may well be agreeing to meet his own doom.

On the other hand, in this game of psychological chicken, a refusal might feasibly be construed as ceding ground –and he has no intention of backing down _now_.

And anyway, he may actually have the advantage: he's better rested than she is, and she's coming off patrol, which is taxing in its own right, and –crucially, empirically—_Uraraka's_ the one who can't keep her damn mouth to herself. _She's_ initiated every kiss they've shared (except while she was laid up in the hospital, but she physically _couldn't_ initiate anything at the time, so it _doesn't fucking count_). Not that he's complaining, or pretending he hasn't eagerly reciprocated each and every time she's thrown herself at him, but the fact remains: thus far, Uraraka's taken the lead in instigating the hot-and-heavy shit.

_She's _the one with the insatiable appetite. He, meanwhile, has restraining himself around her down to a fucking science.

Besides, Katsuki's never more in control than when he's engaged in combat, never more aware or unwavering of purpose than when the outcome of a fight is at stake. If there's _anywhere_ he might be 'safe' –relatively speaking—from temptation, their Agency's training hall would be the place.

And…ultimately, above all else, he can't deny: he'll take _any_ excuse to be near her, huge fuck-off risk or no.

Hence, "Prepare to die, Cheeks."

Uraraka giggles sweetly on the other end of the line, and Katsuki swallows hard, tasting calamity.

* * *

notes:

-'the octopus' is everyone's favorite class 1-a Big Brother, shoji. HE IS THE SWEETEST. I LUFF.  
-NEXT CHAPTER IS SEX + END OF SERIES OR I EAT THIS ENTIRE BOX OF HIGHLIGHTERS.  
-your continued support means the fucking galaxy to me, m'loves. thank you thank you _thank you_.

/-/

[next chapter: match.]


	4. a rational deception

*screams through highlighter cronching*

* * *

Uraraka casually strolls into the training hall as Katsuki's running through a series of light stretches along the outer perimeter of the expansive circular chamber, gym bag slung over her shoulder, smile shining bright, and dressed fucking exactly as he expected: in attire designed to hobble his self-control and force his capitulation. Or, as Ashido might gleefully put it, like a motherfucking _snack_.

First, she's sporting the skull-blazoned black tank he loaned her one night several months back, when she and Frogger had come over to his place for hot pot and Eijirou accidentally upended his drink onto her lap. Katsuki'd supplied a pair of lounge pants for her, as well, which were so baggy on her Hanta had had to dispense some tape to secure them around her waist, and which were returned to him the following day, washed and neatly folded. But he never saw the tank top again…until today.

It hangs loose on her much smaller frame, as it had the evening he'd given it to her, baring both a distracting amount of cleavage and tantalizing flashes of skin and bra anytime she moves or raises her arms. On _nabe* _night, he recalls vividly, she wore a no-frills, pearly pink number. Today, as she bends to set her bag down and the top billows outward, he spies black fabric trimmed in grenade-shell green, with a distinctive, diagonal stripe of day-glo orange hewing toward the center of her chest. Two tiny black dots wink at him from the top corner of the orange band, and Katsuki decides he's going to have murder everyone at his PR firm for licensing the rights to his brand for _this_ special fucking infamy.

As he watches, Uraraka bunches and twists the –not inexpensive—material, knotting it above her waist so that just a sliver of midriff is visible, along with the _barely goddamn decent _pair of shorts previously concealed by the voluminous fall of his stolen shirt. The shorts, evidently, are part of a fucking _matched set_ with the Ground Zero sports bra she's wearing: the stylized explosions of his mask wrap her hips and –as she turns _deliberately_ for him to see—come to their many-splendid points over the shapely curve of her ass.

Checking to make sure his eyes are on her (as if they have anywhere the fuck else to be), Uraraka waggles her fingers at him in a coy-smug approximation of a hello, then dips a second bow, folding this time at the waist to rifle around in her bag, thereby gifting him with a perfect (read: lurid fucking _torturous_) view of those fuck-forsaken shorts riding up the underside of her thigh and teasing a fist-to-the-nuts glimpse of round, creamy flesh.

Katsuki could fucking **scream**. She looks good. _Too _good. But grit and obstinacy steel him against this potent assault –at least until she pops up with a water bottle in hand and promptly lifts it to her lips for a long, slow pull. Mesmerized, fucking sick with anticipation, he watches the muscles of her neck work as she tilts her head back and suctions out a mouthful and swallows with a refreshed '_ahh_,' and sweet dick-flicking _fuck_, what spiteful asshole turned on the _sun-fucked goddamn desert_?

"What the _fuck_," is what he says when she finally sets the bottle down and makes her way toward him, limbering up with feline indolence as she approaches.

At his outburst, Uraraka cocks her head to one side, feigning bewilderment.

"Something wrong?" she tries, all wide-eyed innocence and candid concern.

"This is low, Cheeks." Katsuki's teeth clench as she rolls her shoulders back and clasps her hands behind her, ostensibly in a stretch –except what she's _actually_ doing is pushing out her chest for optimal freaking flaunting, and there is _no fucking way_ she isn't _fully fucking aware _of the havoc she's wreaking—

"Inviting you out for a spar?" she wonders, intentionally missing the point, "I s'ppose it _is_ kinda soon, but don't worry, doc says I'm all clear to return to my normal, high-intensity routine. Patrol, combat and apprehension, hangin' you out to dry –_nothin_'s off the table." Uraraka looks right at him as she says this, gaze hooded, and piercing.

Her continued, pretended ignorance and the general cheeky malevolence of her baited incitements impresses, excites, and _shakes him to his fucking core_, profoundly attenuating his resolve.

But she's also just blatantly challenged him –fucking _again_, which his pride cannot abide.

Consequently, Katsuki bares his teeth in a grim smile and drops into a wide stance, indicating his readiness to begin. Uraraka, grinning, pads to a stop slightly beyond arm's reach and sinks into a stance of her own. Then, her face transforms, taking on that gung-ho, losing-ain't-an-option cast that signals she's about to get serious.

It's a look that burns through him, liquid fire where blood once flowed, and reminds him of the very first time it occurred to him this round-faced girl might be about to wreck his entire fucking life, in an arena surrounded by thousands of jeering fuckwits shouting him down for acknowledging the capability of an opponent who –like him—was willing to do whatever it took to come out on top.

Uraraka is…fuck, she's _magnificent_.

As though from far away, he hears her ask, "House rules?" The question snaps him out of his idiot reverie and refocuses his attention. 'House rules,' she wants to know, meaning: no quirks, and the first to three pins, wins. They're in the padded antechamber adjoining the main training facility, intended more for non-quirk combat anyway, so he's fine with these parameters, and opens his mouth to affirm as much –except it turns out she's not actually interested in his opinion, after all.

The question is a diversion, no sooner spoken than turned aside, the substance of it rendered moot as she full-tilt charges for his _fucking throat_—

/-/

Uraraka's definitely cheating, but Katsuki doesn't realize that's what's happening until he misjudges his landing on a flip and trips into a wall.

She's getting good, and fucking _fast_, at dialing down the gravity by fractions of fractions of degrees. Initially, the effects are so subtle Katsuki isn't even aware he's under the influence of her quirk. He hasn't seen her enact any among the series of conspicuous finger motions she uses to help her visualize how much of a given person or object's normal force she wants to siphon off, and he feels neither off-balance nor sick, which are considerations he normally always has to factor into his movement once she's tapped him weightless. As far as he knows, near-instantaneous, sans-gesture, virtually fucking undetectable gravity fractioning isn't something she can _do_, so there simply isn't cause to suspect her of subterfuge even as the match skews suddenly, heavily in Uraraka's favor. _Right_ after she slaps his fist awry, curls her open palm around his forearm, and shoulder throws him to the floor –which thus far is the only full-hand contact she's scored.

After that, shit gets one-sided on the fucking quick, leading Katsuki to jump to the short-lived yet harrowing conclusion that his reflexes are inexplicably and irrevocably fucked.

But then he rolls into a backward somersault to avoid the pink-and-orange-sneakered foot aimed at his face, and instead of rolling effortlessly up and out of it, as he's done a hundred million times before, he overbalances by a hair and wipes out fucking spectacularly when Uraraka follows through with a short hop and a second kick leveled at his chest. He fumbles clumsy into the wall behind him, cracking his head against the firm padding so hard it jars his fucking brain, and _barely_ manages to pop himself sideways with a pair of light, propulsive bursts as a three-punch combo rains down into the space he just vacated.

By intuition alone, Katsuki _knows_.

Kicking up to his feet with cautious precision, he roars, "Think you're fuckin' _sly_?" Uraraka casually presses her fingers together in a way that screams, '_I'm vapid and innocuous, feel free to underestimate me!_' But he's standing still and he _knows it's fucking coming_, so he _feels_ the fractional weight drop back into his heels, and recognizes the cutesy routine as a fucking front for deactivating her quirk.

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Affecting Ponytail cadence, Uraraka slow-mo blinks those huge, horrible eyes of hers and moves subtly back into striking range. He curls his lip at her.

"So fuckin' full of it." She steeples the tips of her gravity-thieving fingers between her collarbones, mock scandalized.

"Who, _me_?"

Belligerently, "The fuck happened to 'house rules?' Where the shit did _no quirks _fucking go?" Uraraka waves this off.

"A rational deception." He rolls his eyes and groans, long-suffering. They reached the point of diminishing returns on this classic Eraserhead untruth years ago.

"A chickenshit fucking lie."

"Clever strategy?"

"Desperation."

Attempting a redirect, "You used _your_ quirk, too."

"Who the hell said I wouldn't? The handicap was your shitty idea –which I'll remind you I was given no fucking opportunity to agree to."

"Maybe so…" she concedes, drawing closer still. His entire body tenses in response. "…but weren't you just boasting to Kirishima-kun the other day that you could take _anyone_, quirk or no quirk?"

Hackles decidedly fucking up, "Tryin' to make a point, Sweetness?" Uraraka smiles serenely.

"No, not really. Enjoyin' proving you wrong, is all." She winks and slicks on a cocky grin, and _fuck_ but he wants her.

"Smartass."

"Sore loser."

"_Bitch_," he calls her, seeding an incendiary provocation of his own, which he hopes to _fuck_ brings her to whatever level of speechless fury she was operating at when she kissed him on top of the Registry, because fuck knows he wants her, but he also wants to _win_.

He's still reasonably confident she'll crack before he does, because that's what the empirical data has borne out.

Except…then Uraraka introduces a new variable to the equation, unknotting the tank top and peeling it off in one fluid motion, exposing the entirety of her Ground Zero-print sports bra and the lean-muscled expanse of her stomach, and suddenly the old data can no longer be relied upon to extrapolate the outcome.

Katsuki's hands squeeze compulsively into fists, and she watches him swallow hard and stare, fucking transfixed.

In an act of mindless, punitive mimicry, Katsuki removes his shirt, too, flinging it away from him as the room temperature spikes from arid wastes to muggy, sweltering _hell_.

For the first time this afternoon, Uraraka's mask of canny certainty slips, and she stares back, lower lip disappearing between her teeth as high color suffuses her already pink cheeks.

Katsuki smirks, gratified.

After a fraught pause, "Don't call me that," she advises, stormy disapproval darkening her brow. All the while, her gaze is riveted to his form, roving languid; lingering hungry.

It's as good an opening as he's going to get.

Katsuki rushes her, left arm arcing outward in a backhanded blow Uraraka smacks off-course at the last second. Meanwhile, his right hand forms a stunning blast he releases prematurely as she dodges and catches his forearm with the bony knob of her elbow. Wasting no time, Uraraka retakes the ground she lost, stomp-kicking toward his shin at a bone-breaking angle and lashing out with an open-palm strike to first one, then the other side of his head. He evades both shots, smirk wedging higher at the look of angry determination sharpening Uraraka's otherwise soft features, and snatches the wrist whistling past his ear out of empty air with the hand opposite hers. From there, he levers his grip and whips her arm downward, transversely across her body, attempting to pull her off her feet.

But Uraraka anticipates the move and disrupts it, swiftly rotating her wrist in his grasp to break herself free, then springing left to drive her shoulder into his chest and knock him back.

Katsuki lets himself be pushed, shifting his weight to anchor himself on his back leg as he aims a kick at her side. Again, she beats him to the punch, ducking the kick and locking his lower leg at the knee and ankle so she can co-opt the momentum of his kick by throwing herself into a sideways roll and centrifuging his chump ass into the fucking floor.

And that'd be hot enough on its own, separate and the fuck apart from the '_stay down or eat shit_' glower she's focusing into his fucking _soul_.

As it is, he can hardly fucking breathe, as much from the slamming impact of his back against the ground as from the shattering realization that he's staring down the barrel of an impending loss and he _doesn't fucking care_.

Horrified, Katsuki doesn't wait to regain his breath, instead frantically bicycle-kicking up at Uraraka the instant she releases her hold on his leg. He catches her under the chin, which sends her reeling back in surprise, and gets his feet under him just as she recovers and charges him all over again.

_Done with this shit_, Katsuki lobs a fist-sized explosion at her, and though she gets her arms up in time to take the brunt of the blast, it still flings her to the ground and tumbles her clear across the damn room.

After she finally skids to a halt, Uraraka, shaken, visibly struggles to pull herself up. As she stands, he sees bright streaks of blood smeared across either forearm. The injuries are superficial, more lightly singed skin than anything else, and she gives no indication she's in any special pain, doesn't even appear to notice she's bleeding.

She just…glares at him, eyes fixed to his face, apparently deep in concentration.

Katsuki cuts her an incisive grin, approving.

And then – he's floating. Spinning through the air, crashing gently against the ceiling, disoriented, vaguely nauseous –then hurtling toward the floor, face-first. He cushions his landing with some last-minute pyrotechnics, but still eats shit. Before he has time to figure out what the _fuck_ is happening, she floats and drops him _twice fucking more_, from –he checks—the exact same spot _across the goddamn room_.

Following the third consecutive float-and-fall, Uraraka leaves him grounded long enough for him to look up and take her in, where she's _still fucking standing_, _fucking __**several**__ meters away_.

She's _beaming_.

"I did it," she marvels, disbelieving. "The delayed activation. The release-and-_re_activation, without needin' to touch you again. And it…it wasn't a fluke!" Her hands are fists now, pumping excitedly at her sides. "I did it _three times_! I did it," she repeats, exuberant, "I _did it_!"

She's right to be proud: both are enhancement techniques she's been laboring to figure out since she first gained the ability to manipulate her quirk by degrees. He wonders if the way forward had clicked for her in those fucking _interminable_ minutes she'd been locked in mortal contest with the Quirk Registry.

For the thousandth time, Katsuki concludes that the decision he made three years prior –to pull Uraraka into his orbit as the closest thing he'd ever willingly have to an official partner—was the _right fucking decision_.

Her abilities are remarkable, her strength is demonstrably prodigious, and the well of her potential is clearly freaking bottomless.

She's the best thing that's ever fucking happened to him.

So what the _shit_ is he doing, participating in this flimsy-premised, ass-headed bet? It's been long the fuck enough already that he's stood in his own goddamn way and denied himself the unconditional affection Uraraka is offering –and denied _her_ the uncompromising devotion she so rightly deserves.

Victory be damned. His _pride_ be damned.

"Ochako," he rasps, smearing through some blood of his own, slow-trickling out of his nose as he moves to close the large distance separating them. At the sound of her given name, Uraraka freezes, brown eyes wide.

Katsuki doesn't slow his approach when her smile shades sly with triumph. He doesn't question the happy tears that well in her eyes, and stream unchecked down exertion-ruddy cheeks.

And he sure as shit _doesn't fucking hesitate_ as he shores up before her and she raises up onto her tip-toes, tendering while explicitly _not_ taking.

Katsuki freely cedes the battle -and in so doing, wins the war.

* * *

*nabe - any among a variety of japanese hot pot dishes, which is traditionally shared around a communal table on a little, portable stove

/-/  
other notes:

-if the sparring sequence comprising the latter quarter of this chapter seems familiar to you…that's probably because you've been in this fandom/tag long enough to know who the patron saint of kacchako is (dailykrumbs), and you've seen her fucking incredible 'real drive' animation (check that shit out the youtubes) -upon which this chapter's action is directly based.  
-i've been about to write the 'last' chapter since may. i give up. who knows how long this fic'll be. maybe next chapter'll be the last? maybe this story really will continue into next year? all i know for sure is, i'm trapped in this prison and there's no escape and i guess the only real option going forward is to come to terms with and learn to be fine with it?  
-p.s. SEND HELP I'M TRAPPED IN THIS PRISON AND THERE'S NO ESCAPE AND I'M NOT FINE WITH IT  
-lovelovelove, my darlings~ 3

/-/

[next chapter: porn, maybe? FURTHER BLOVIATING?! WHO KNOOOOOOOOOWS NOT MEEEEEEEE]


	5. joy of conquest

THE UST HATH BROKEN!

it's sex all the way down, babies~ ;D

enjoy!

* * *

The kiss they share now bears no resemblance to any that have come before. There's no exigent circumstance to prompt the impetuous administration of restorative candies; and no crushing, impossible burden demanding frantic, last-ditch distraction. This is no inflammatory public stunt contrived to set off a media explosion, and neither is it a sad, clandestine affair, grasping contact stolen under cover of darkness, rent with longing and grief and quiet desperation. Gone, too, all traces of this morning's mutual frenzy.

This kiss is deliberate, slow and fluid and deep, meant for savoring.

This kiss is culmination, and commencement, and patent inevitability.

This kiss feels a fucking _lot_ like winning.

/-/

Ochako doesn't have time to process the miracle that is Bakugou, _willingly_ _surrendering_, before his mouth descends on hers, heavy and all-consuming. She tastes her tears and his blood and the mingled sweat of several minutes' worth of intense physical exertion. She feels the heated press of his hands against naked skin: one at the curve of her waist to steady and support her, while the other grips tight around the base of her neck, possessive, predatory. She hears herself gasping in delighted shock as the hand at her waist skims up, grazing the underside of her breast before teasin' back, the tips of his fingers tracing the sensitive flesh just beyond the wire-in-fabric barrier. She opens her eyes to watch him break away, red gaze foggy with carnal focus, impious twist to his lips as he ducks to run his tongue up the column of her throat.

Her head spins with the delirious joy of _conquest_, her senses alight with the sharp scent of perspiration, cut at intervals by the rich fragrance of sugar burning. Dizzy pride surges through her, overpowering, stirring her to raise her hand to Bakugou's mouth as he angles up for another kiss. She feels light-headed, unsteady on her feet.

This's big, what's happening here. Monumental, even. Ochako needs a minute to breathe, to drink it all in.

Bakugou indulges her sentimental stay, tacitly sanctioning the recess even as he nudges tentative against the feather press of her fingers, assessing. Then, pinnin' her to the spot with a look foreshadowing all manner o' knee-knockin' depravity, he inclines his head just so, lips parting as they climb and crest the tip of her middle finger –which he promptly pulls into his mouth. Contrary to the purpose of her time-out, Ochako's breath quickens as Bakugou's teeth gently drag the length of her finger, and before she quite knows what's happening, she's pullin' him back in, hands wrapping the nape of his neck and haulin' him frantic toward her, sealing her mouth over his to stop him slickin' on any looming smug.

…turns out the smug's unstoppable, though, and they go thumpin' to the floor together through the haughty wedge of his smirk, falling with the easy grace of rigorous conditioning, and rolling out where the momentum carries 'em.

/-/

Katsuki finds himself on his back, Urara—_Ochako_, that is, hovering over him, hands braced on the padded floor on either side of his head.

Past the point of caring that this technically counts toward the now irrelevant three-pin count, Katsuki stretches up, burying a hand in her hair to compel a continuation. Obligingly, Ochako drops her weight and –_doesn't_ kiss him, though she teases down like she means to, the damn minx, skirting left at the last second to touch her lips to his ear.

With so much concentrated hauteur she's practically fucking purring, she breathes, "_I win_," and sinks her hips against him, firm, sinuous.

Helpless to stop himself arching up, from chasing that exquisite fucking _pressure_, Katsuki sucks in a lungful through clenched teeth, eyes screwing shut against the exhilarating agony of her fingers, fisted tight in his hair; synapses flashing wild at the wet warmth of her mouth, trailing kisses along the ridge of his bare shoulder.

It's already too much: the heat of her; the smell and feel and ragged-sonorous _sound _of her; the fucking _**friction**_ as she _continues _rising and falling against him, helical, with hedonist languor.

And that's _before_ she reaches between them and _grabs_ him through his sweats, first squeezing hard, then kneading gently upward with calculated, excruciating slowness. All the while, a devilish smile on her angel face.

Katsuki bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of it, tasting blood, fighting to suppress whatever the hell cardiac fucking _torsion_ is happening in his chest –and likewise fighting to keep his hands fisted and stationary at his sides, well the fuck away from her, afraid to touch her when it's suddenly fucking _all he can do_ to keep a lid on his quirk.

He's poised precarious at the brink of his own failing self-control, fucking _dying_ to tear Ochako out of his merch and map the battle-hewn expanse of her body with his fingers, yet unable to fully trust he'll be able to maintain focus well enough to continue rendering his sweat inert without the aid of his custom-made hand cream –which again, is at his apartment, fucking _across town_.

Under normal circumstances, the process of chemically deactivating his sweat is one Katsuki undertakes without difficulty –hell, without really even needing to think about it. Day-to-day interactions with persons or objects necessitating contact can be casually and safely handled without fear of leaving behind any residues which might later explode when exposed to shock or heat, even when summer is at its muggiest and most miserable.

Certain conditions exist, however, that compromise this hard-won mastery. Namely, any situation involving emotionally charged intersections of extreme physical activity and incredible psychological strain. Typically, these intersections only ever occur in combat encounters. Less frequently, he will lose finer control over his quirk if an interaction with Deku gets particularly fraught. And on a handful of occasions following Ochako's close call last year, he'd had a series of alarming slip-ups, once on the job, with near dire consequences –though at the time he convinced himself these were flukes, unrelated to the girl-shaped turmoil he'd been fighting bitterly to suppress and ignore.

Obviously, then, this has limited his options in terms of having a sex life, as well. Which isn't to say he's avoided the enterprise altogether: he has at least enough experience to know what he likes, it just ain't a thing he's ever really _sought out_. His professional ambitions have always been priority one, to the willing exclusion of all manner of 'leisure time' pursuits. And anyway, none of his past hook-ups have happened at _work_ (nor would they have even if he'd had the opportunity), so far and so completely removed from the one thing he needs to _do the damn thing _without risking the untimely explosion-murder of his partner.

Until Ochako. Until today. Until right the fuck now. He wants her, badly, more than he can remember wanting almost fucking anything, ever, in his entire godforsaken life.

Except, he just as strongly refuses to risk slicking up her perfect skin with volatile chemicals.

Apparently perceiving his hesitation, and undoubtedly also his sudden unwillingness to touch her, Ochako releases him, pulls back slightly, earnest concern surfacing in her half-lidded gaze.

Then, a question he fucking hates, sandwiched between sweet kisses: "Are you okay?"

Katsuki glares up at her, frustrated, preparing to roll her off of him and drag her out of the agency and rocket them across the damn city to his apartment where they can finish what he started, his imminent patrol be damned.

Gingerly, Ochako sweeps her fingers upward, along the underside of his dick, "D'you wanna stop?"

An agitated '_**Fuck**__ no_' sits heavy on his tongue, but he chokes it back with a strangled groan that is somehow even less dignified than his desperation would've been.

/-/

Stopping is clearly not what Bakugou wants, which puts flight to Ochako's fear she's pushin' things too far, too fast, and gives her leave to mull over other explanations. Knowin' him and the particulars of his quirk as long as she has, and noticing, too, the white-knuckled clench of his fists on the floor, it doesn't take her overlong to conjure a likely reason for his sudden disengagement: he's probably worried about accidentally hurting her.

Which…isn't something she's ever thought to consider, actually, and opens up a whole bundle o' other, corollary considerations. For instance, how has he dealt with this problem before? And…_has_ he dealt with this before? Has he done this…_ever_? It's surprisingly hard for her to admit she has no idea one way or the other, though she decides that's information she'd best let him volunteer in his own time, rather than pry.

Shakin' loose her astonishment, Ochako brings her hands to either side of his face, cradling it gently between her fingers.

With careful sincerity, "I trust you," she assures him, "you won't hurt me." Bakugou blinks up at her in that half-perplexed, all-irritated way he always does when she correctly guesses what he's thinking.

"Don't be an idiot," he chastises, "that's not how it fucking works."

Relaxing into the pleasant rumble of his chest beneath her, "Isn't it?" His expression sours. "And here I always thought if you _really_ wanted to do something, you just…_did it_, an' figured the rest out along the way. No?" Her knuckles glide lazy across his collarbone, curve to slide the firm grade of his pec. She's fascinated by the fever heat of him, gripped by the stuttered catch of his breath under her ministrations. "Or are ya'…givin' up? Admitting defeat?" She leans in, holding just shy of touching her lips to his, smile widening as he stretches helpless for the kiss she ultimately denies him, "_Again_?"

Bakugou screeches to a halt, glower blackening fit to scorch the earth. Ochako bites back a grin, layin' her palms flat against his chest and leverin' herself up to a sitting position.

"This is different," he snaps, pushing up onto his elbows. "You know it's fucking different."

Ochako _does_ know it's different. She understands what she's asking is both extraordinary and extraordinarily dangerous –which is why she wouldn't ask it of anyone other'n Bakugou Katsuki, who never balks at a challenge. Whose victory is assured, because he refuses to let it be otherwise. Who smiles as the sky falls and believes in her so implicitly he risked his very life on the gamble she could pull off the impossible.

It'd be rude of her not to reciprocate such categorical confidence.

Hence, when it becomes clear he means not to budge, instead of getting frustrated, Ochako gets…creative.

/-/

"Fine," Ochako yields, as Katsuki braces himself for the inevitable dismount and runs the numbers in his mind, trying to determine whether or not he actually does have a large enough window to throw her over his shoulder, hail a cab home, and still make it back in time for his patrol shift.

But she doesn't get up.

Instead, she angles her arms up behind her back and unhooks her bra, sliding the fabric from her arms and dangling one strap from her finger briefly before letting it drop. Then, while Katsuki's eyes threaten to to bug out of his fucking skull, the girl of his goddamn dreams draws a hand between the valley of her breasts, breathing deep as she hinges slowly downward, fingers stealing ever closer to the upper hem of her shorts.

_Holy shit_, he thinks, unable to look away.

"If you won't do it," she drags her lower lip between her teeth as her fingers disappear beneath the waistband, "I'll just, _mmmm_, do it myself."

_Holy shit_, _holy _**_shit—_**

The sight of Ochako –head thrown back; tits on full, glorious display; the fingers of her right hand working deftly between them as she resumes rocking her hips above him—makes his balls clench so hard he almost comes on the spot. And the sharp, staccato shudder of her voice, drawn high with pleasure, _isn't fucking helping_. Neither is the way she leans back and squeezes the shit out of his thigh, gouging his flesh to brace herself; or the way her own thighs sporadically tighten around him as she races for a summit it sounds an awful fucking lot like she can already goddamn see.

He can't touch her, he can't fucking touch her, but he has to do something or he's going to fucking **die**, so he drops his elbows and reaches for her cloth-covered ass, meaning to tear the shorts away, or anchor and flip her, or grab her and grind her down harder –but no sooner do his hands stir fabric than Ochako abruptly stills, eyes fluttering open and flashing cold as she beholds him.

As if from atop a fucking throne, she commands him, "Hands off," and he complies without question, caught squarely between dumbfounded and awestruck.

Katsuki caught a glimpse of this self-same austerity back at the Registry, the first time they made out, and wondered then if it was more the result of extreme duress or if, as in combat, Ochako is simply disposed to taking the reins whenever the hell it suits her to do so. Right now, as she's lowering herself to lie flush against him, the softness of her chest pressed to his sternum, sly authority in the crease of her smile, the latter is looking far fucking likelier.

"Better safe than sorry, right?" She traces the raised skin of a scar he earned his first year on the job, one of three jagged, roughly parallel score marks where his neck meets his shoulder. "Since ya' can't control your quirk an' all." Katsuki thought he was close before, but it turns out he was nowhere fucking _near_ the edge he's left _barely_ gripping after Ochako coolly issues _another fucking challenge_. "So you just lie back," her nails steeple, glide, "relax," scrape gently upward, grazing his nipple, "an' keep your hands to yourself." Finally, as she lightly rolls the skin between the catspaw tips of her fingers, "Or else."

'Or else fucking _**what**_,' he demands –or _would_ have demanded, if he weren't focusing his fucking _entire existence _on not going off, either prematurely or with a disastrous quirk-induced explosion.

Thereafter, any protest he might have lodged is stalled by Ochako sliding purposefully down his torso, brushing open-mouthed kisses over the planes of his chest and stomach as she goes, tugging with cheeky insistence at the dual waistband of his sweats and boxers.

"Ochako—" he grates, hands twitching at his sides as she bares him to her scrutiny with a single, swift _pull_.

Clinical as she is in her appraisal, Katsuki doesn't know what the fuck to think until she licks her lips and, before he can fully comprehend what's happening, wraps a pinky-popped hand around the base of his dick and _swallows him down_.

Through a sweltering haze of incredulous delirium: "_**Fuck**_—!" he chokes out, hating her, loving her, wanting this torture to end, wanting to fist his fingers in her hair and drive up into that wet heat and lose himself completely. He checks this impulse, however, body tense and teeth gritted against the blinding sensation of her hand, pumping upward as her mouth suctions free, then winding back like a fucking piston rod as she takes him once more between those pink fucking lips.

She breaks rhythm intermittently to tongue at the head and massage his balls (a sweet fucking torture all its own), but otherwise builds him steady toward that inexorable peak, increasingly, _audibly_ enthusiastic as his every muscle coils so tight he's practically fucking seizing with the strain.

Still, Katsuki manages to hold out for another little eternity of seconds, determined not to make an over-eager damn fool of himself –until Ochako opens those big, brown eyes and flicks him a hooded glance from under thick lashes and murmurs an '_mmmmm_' that hums through him like a fucking current and fucking _destroys _him.

/-/

Katsuki's palms crack and spark as he groans his way through an orgasm that hits so hard it fucking _hurts_, yet –significantly, unbelievably—he contains the threat of a larger, deadlier detonation.

When he finally resurfaces, it's blearily, to the radiant spectacle that is Ochako, dabbing dainty at her lips and looking immensely pleased with herself. Dazed, it takes him another long moment to regain his senses and realize the mess he typically associates with this species of aftermath is missing, and that there can only really be one explanation for its absence. He looks wonderingly at Ochako as she finishes divesting him of his pants and boxers and whips them away, then crawls back on top of him to bury her face in the crook of his neck. Once situated, she makes no conversation, only relaxes, breathing deep and tracing lazy patterns on his shoulder.

She comprises a pleasant weight, and one which paradoxically untethers him, sets him floating off into space.

At length, Ochako lifts back to peer down at him.

"That was nice," she says, with airy coyness. Katsuki grins, and leans up to kiss her, tasting himself on her tongue. When they part, "Lookin' forward to round two –maybe Wednesday, after you cook me dinner?"

Katsuki blinks, caught off-guard, understanding only in stages that she thinks they're done here.

Which, for the record, they are definitely fucking _not_.

* * *

notes:

-don't y'all worry none, uraraka's gonna get hers. scout's honor. and then there'll probably be a round two. stay tuned.

-and: i'm already about a quarter of the way through the next chapter, and the end is finally, definitely in sight. i can confidently announce the sixth chapter will be the final installment in this series, and if my current pace continues, it'll be out well before christmas.

thank you, thank you, thank you, for real and for true~

/-/

[last chapter: bakugou feasts, and the kacchako is consummated at last. ;D]


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